The Lady and the Tiger
by littlesoprano
Summary: Sondheim's A Little Night Music - Carl Magnus and Charlotte are not exactly one of musical theatre's fairy tale couples. Why did they marry? Were they ever happy? What happens to them in the future? Will include other characters from the show.
1. The Lady

Disclaimer: The characters of Charlotte Olafsson/Malcolm, Carl-Magnus Malcolm and Marta Olafsson do not belong to me. They are from the musical "A Little Night Music" by Stephen Sondheim (music/lyrics) and Hugh Wheeler (book). The musical is in turn based on the Ingmar Bergman film "Smiles of a Summer Night," which is where these characters first appeared. I did come up with the characters of Alrik Malcolm, Rikard Olafsson and Antonetta Olafsson. This work is written purely for enjoyment and not for any monetary gain whatsoever.

Spoilers: The entire musical "A Little Night Music" and the film "Smiles of a Summer Night

Notes: This fanfiction is set ten years before the action of "A Little Night Music" and will continue on past it by several years. There will be aspects of "Smiles of a Summer Night" worked in, particularly in the similarity of Carl-Magnus and Charlotte as characters, which I think is often not as obvious in the musical. Though it won't be evident by this lengthy first chapter, my intention is to do it in more of a stand-alone vignette style. The reason for this is that I can't always promise speedy updates these days, and I prefer to do one-shots or vignettes. They will go in chronological order, and will deal with certain events in Carl-Magnus and Charlotte's relationship.

**The Lady and the Tiger**

**Chapter One: The Lady**

How strange that one's life should change, sitting over tea in a parlor.

It was a Tuesday evening in early spring. It was not an evening that seemed to be of any particular import, yet it was a _beginning._ Outside the windows of the Olafsson family country house, the evening air was cool and the birch trees shone silver. Inside the parlor sat father and daughter, she with a cup of tea and he with a newspaper and schnapps.

It might have been a pleasant, cozy domestic scene – were the father and daughter in question not who they were. The truth of it was that Rikard Olafsson and his daughter, Charlotte, had not experienced a pleasant domestic scene in years. The room was silent, and not comfortably so. Though the only sound was the occasional clink of a spoon against teacup or the rustle of paper, the air was loud with unspoken expectation.

When Mr. Olafsson at last broke the silence, it was in a voice as tonelessly noncommittal as if he were reading out some advertisement from the pages in front of him. During his many years spent in business ventures, he'd developed an unreadable, concealing manner that had often proved invaluable. He fervently hoped it would prove so now.

"Charlotte," he began, turning a page, "I've invited a guest to stay with us over next week. He'll be arriving on Friday evening." His eyes did not leave the paper. "I trust you can make the proper arrangements by then." All this was delivered in a voice completely void of inflection.

Charlotte's eyebrow quirked in reply, though it went unseen behind her father's screen of newsprint. If Rikard Olafsson had mastered the art of a studiedly offhand manner, his daughter had equally mastered the art of seeing through it. What, she wondered, did her father have up his sleeve? It wasn't his request in itself that was unusual. She was well versed in the role of hostess and lady of the household; she'd taken up that mantle since the death of her dear mother eight years before. No, it was the short notice—as well as her father's skillfully vague delivery —that roused her suspicions. It was Tuesday evening now, and preparation for a week-long stay was not a task that could be quickly accomplished. Any person that her father would invite to their home would be used to the best accommodations and certain social amenities. She would have to arrange a dinner party, or at least a welcoming reception, on top of everything else. Unless her father had extended the invitation impulsively that very afternoon, he would not have given her less than three days to make ready. Her father was not prone to impulse. No, there had to be a method behind this madness, and she intended to find out what it was. Charlotte kept her expression pleasantly neutral and nonchalantly added lemon to her tea.

"Of course, Father. Though it is a bit of a… short notice?"

Mr. Olafsson caught the barest hint of baiting in her voice. She was suspicious already, blast it! "Yes, well," he replied, matter-of-fact. "I received a letter from a friend of mine…" He paused to pour himself some more schnapps.

By friend, Charlotte knew, he meant a business and/or social connection—their family had very few friends of any other type. Her father was undoubtedly courting some favor or another, though to disapprove overmuch would be a touch hypocritical. After all, she and her two younger sisters, Antonetta and Marta, enjoyed the fruits of his labor, as evidenced by the richly appointed parlor in which she and her father were now conversing.

Mr. Olafsson took a drink of his schnapps and set the glass down before going on. "…Count Alrik Malcolm," he continued. He paused, waiting for her reaction. Maddeningly, she gave none. He knew her game—she was forcing him to lay his cards out on the table. Well, so be it.

"He mentioned in it that his son, Carl-Magnus, has military duties that bring him near here—he's a dragoon, you see. He'll have a week of leave during his tour here. The Malcolm estates are all too far away for him to return home in that time, so I felt it only polite to suggest he stay with us. Much nicer than one of those inns in town. I've wired them both and Count Carl-Magnus has accepted the invitation."

"Ah, I see." Charlotte paused and took a well-timed sip from her tea. "And so when are we to be married?"

Mr. Olafsson thrust down his newspaper with a loud noise of exasperation. Charlotte's words were like a starting pistol, shot into the tight-drawn air around them. The change was immediate, the tension shattered. Her question heralded the beginning of an all-too-familiar argument between them, one that had been repeated in countless tiresome variations over the past five years at least. This one, however, had a major difference, immediately revealed.

"Or did you have him in mind for--?"

"—Yes, Antonetta, if you must know, and I won't have you interfering!"

"Antonetta and a_dashing dragoon_? It would take a herd of wild horses to interfere."

Mr. Olafsson just kept himself from swearing in frustration. It would have been giving her ground. He could feel his face growing hot, his temper rising, while Charlotte remained cool and seemingly impassive. It was her way of battle, and battling she was—he could tell by her curving smile. Here he was, a man who had remained stoic through some of the most intense business dealings one could imagine, barely able to keep his head in a disagreement with his own daughter! So it had been with every conversation they'd had on this subject in the past. He had hoped that the change of matrimonial focus would make Charlotte less difficult to deal with, but clearly he was not going to be that fortunate. She must be objecting to the idea—this semi-arranged marriage-- on principle.

While he had hoped, he hadn't really expected her to behave differently. That was the very reason he had waited until the last possible moment to tell her of the visit, rather than two weeks before when the invitation was actually accepted. He had harbored some remote hope that she might believe his story, which after all was almost entirely true. Count Carl-Magnus did indeed have military duties in the area, and there had been a letter from the elder Count Malcolm to inform him of the fact. What he had not told her, but that he knew now she had figured out, was that there had been other letters and other telegrams, along with a series of meetings between himself and Count Alrik. Their objective—to join their two families through marriage.

He knew now that he should have told her, straight out from the beginning. She would have objected no less, but at least she wouldn't have such a look on her face— a look that showed she had outwitted him. None of his similar subterfuges, designed in order to introduce _her_ to promising marriage partners, had succeeded in the past. Of course, he wouldn't have been forced into such measures were she not so stubbornly opposed to his efforts to marry her off. No, it was almost impossible to put anything past his oldest daughter; she was sharp as a briar. There were times when he looked on that trait with pride, for he could see in her a bit of himself. After all, he had not built his fortune by being either witless or gullible. Mostly, however, he thought Charlotte entirely too clever for her own good… or for anyone else's.

It was her mother's doing. The woman had given him little but trouble while she was alive, and had left her firstborn daughter behind to continue in her place. He'd been a young man when he married, young and-- in the ways of love, anyway-- inexperienced. His wife was a Frenchwoman who had immigrated with her family to Stockholm. They'd been a rich family once—landed money, with a vast network of social connections all over Europe—while he was but the fourth son of a simple tradesman. He was also ambitious, with rapidly increasing wealth and prospects. Their fortunes dwindling, they'd been willing to introduce "fresh stock" into the family, as they put it. It hadn't been an entirely mercenary arrangement. She'd been a lovely, charming woman… while it lasted.

Now here was Charlotte, her mother's legacy—even, he sometimes thought, her revenge. Shades of Miss Havisham and Estella. Charlotte—the only one of his daughters with a French name, instead of the good, solid Scandinavian name he had wanted. She looked like her mother, with the same slim, elegant lines and sharply defined features. When he looked at Charlotte, he could almost see his wife. When he closed his eyes, he could always hear her.

"So you've given up on me at last, Father," said Charlotte. "Or is this just a temporary reprieve? After all, we can't throw away a chance on a_count_. A baron, perhaps, but not a count. I'm entirely too risky a venture. By the way, what is the going price for a title these days? I would think it must be reduced—we may be as rich as the nobility, but we're still conspicuously without a coat of arms."

One look at her father and Charlotte knew she'd pushed things too far. She'd meant what she said in jest—only, not quite. Not for the first time, Charlotte thought to herself that she was not a particularly nice person. It was better for their relationship for her to believe his intentions weren't completely mercenary. While it was perfectly true that he was doing little more, in her opinion, than auctioning off she and now her sister like prize mares at market, he probably believed it was for their own good. How he could feel that way considering his own loveless marriage was beyond her, but there it was.

She also, however, knew that he coveted the nobility, even if he wouldn't admit it to himself. He prided himself on being self-made, but if he could join the family line with noble blood, he'd do it. Now, it seemed, he was actively seeking it. The real mystery was why the Malcolm family was amenable to the arrangements. She knew they must be involved, or at least approving, unless they didn't have half a brain of sense among them. A young, eligible count invited to stay the week with a man's two young, unmarried daughters? It was simply too obvious. Perhaps the Malcolms were property-rich but cash-poor, desiring to join their noble lineage with the wealth of a respectable—though not titled—family. It was not an uncommon practice. Surely this Carl-Magnus was not so distasteful to every noblewoman in Sweden that the family was forced to look elsewhere—or was he? She'd heard talk of the Malcolm family at more than one social gathering, but nothing about its specific members. Anything she had heard could be put down to gossip, which Charlotte had little taste for and avoided when she could.

"And how does the Count Carl-Magnus Malcolm feel about these arrangements?" she asked. "Not the first for him, either, I'm sure."

Her father, openly angry now, was inclined to be forthcoming. "The same as you do, the way his father tells it! He's even more averse to marriage than you are, if that's possible."

"I'll have to watch myself—I'm beginning to like him."

"Well, that would certainly be a first!"

It would be, truly. She knew what people said of her—that she hated men, that she never wanted to marry. Neither of these things was true. She was not opposed to the idea of marriage, but not when its purpose was some monetary or social gain. She wanted to marry someone she could love, or with whom she could at least share mutual respect. So far, no man she had met qualified, and her prospects showed no signs of improving. The so-called courtly ways of her suitors both amused and often disgusted her. Manners hid so much. There were men who could barely manage two words to her, so afraid of her lancing sarcastic wit. There were others who would pointedly avoid speaking with her, not willing to risk being shown up by a woman. She admitted that she often overdid it, but to her way of thinking, any man who couldn't handle some verbal sparring wasn't the sort of man she wanted. Others used smooth manners and a gentlemanly veneer as a mask for what they really wanted—whether that be her acquiescence or the promise of her father's wealth. She didn't know which was worse. It was all sickeningly shallow, and Charlotte had seen through it from a young age. It was almost alarming how fast her state of nearly constant cynicism had come on.

"I can't help it if the men I meet can't look past your money and actually see _me._ Or if they're so unsure of themselves that they're put off by a woman's intelligent remark."

"Intelligent? Cutting is more the word I'd choose!"

From behind her teacup, the corners of Charlotte's mouth lifted into a slight smile. "True enough, Father," she said with a tinge of self-satisfaction.

The girl, thought Mr. Olafsson, was entirely too pleased with herself. "You don't seem to realize this, but you're fast approaching a time when they won't try for you anymore! You're already nearing 23 years old, and--"

"Ah! And that's the trouble isn't it? I can hardly be expected to chase after every passing young man when I have one foot so firmly lodged in the grave. By next year I'll scarce be able to manage a hobble. But not to worry, Father. I imagine I'll marry someday, when I'm a wealthy old spinster… some impoverished but devastatingly handsome man half my age, without a thought in his pretty little head. A_grateful_, devastatingly handsome man. Yes, that would suit me very well."

Mr. Olafsson was not amused, but he knew he was defeated—just as he had been time after time again. There was no use carrying on with this—not now. "Be_serious_, Charlotte!"

"Oh, I am. The truth is, I'll have to find a man clever enough to keep up with me, one brave enough not to be terrified of me, or one too stupid to know the difference."

Mr. Olafsson pushed away from the table, tossing down his newspaper. "That's enough of that! We'll deal with _your_ marriage later. Tomorrow morning you're going to begin preparations, and that's an order, Charlotte! When the Count arrives you'll act the good hostess and that is all. Do you understand?" He stood over her imperiously.

She looked up at him, the same infuriating little smile on her lips. No matter how it might appear, she'd had the last word—and they both knew it. "Yes, Father."

"Very well, then," he replied gruffly, and turned to leave the room.

Count Carl-Magnus Malcolm was going to marry Antonetta, and as heaven as his witness, Charlotte was not going to do anything to stop it!


	2. The Tiger

Disclaimer: The characters of Charlotte Olafsson/Malcolm, Carl-Magnus Malcolm and Marta Olafsson do not belong to me. They are from the musical "A Little Night Music" by Stephen Sondheim (music/lyrics) and Hugh Wheeler (book). The musical is in turn based on the Ingmar Bergman film "Smiles of a Summer Night," which is where these characters first appeared. I did come up with the characters of Lieutenant Brandin, Alrik Malcolm, Rikard Olafsson and Antonetta Olafsson. This work is written purely for enjoyment and not for any monetary gain whatsoever.

**Chapter Two: The Tiger**

_[She__ is so strong and independent. No one can master her—not even Carl-Magnus. That's why he's obsessed with her." – Charlotte, "Smiles of a Summer Night"_

"Carl-Magnus? Carl-Magnus, we're ready to go!" The voice of Lieutenant Brandin rang through the regiment's tent barracks. Many of the officer's tents stood empty, their occupants having already joined a rowdy procession on its way out of the camp. It was the tradition of the officers to begin their leave with a trip to a nearby pub, and the men were chomping at the bit to go. Brandin grinned good-naturedly as he was nearly jostled off his feet in the mass exodus. "Well, if you get left behind, don't complain about it to me!" he hollered to his absent friend. "Count or no, they're not going to wait for long!"

He found his fellow officer inside his tent, trimming his moustache in the reflection of a small hanging mirror. Brandin's smile widened. Battle plans for the greatest wars in history could not have been studied with more intensity than Carl-Magnus Malcolm paid his own reflection. He trimmed with exacting precision, stopping often to get a magnified view through the monocle that hung around his neck. The monocle was a new fancy of his, though no one knew why. The Count Carl-Magnus was only twenty-four years old, and the accessory seemed appropriate for a much older man. Even so, no one dared question him about the fashion. Few people, in fact, dared question him about much of anything.

Brandin received only a cursory nod of greeting as he entered the tent. Immediately he spotted the regimental jacket laid over a nearby chair, complete with full regalia. This was a bit much for the local tavern, even for Carl-Magnus.

"You must have other plans," he noted. "Sash and medals—not exactly pub attire."

Carl-Magnus didn't turn his eyes from the mirror as he answered.

"That's right, I haven't told you." The past weeks had been spent in exhausting training with their separate companies, and he and Brandin had hardly had time to stand about exchanging pleasantries. "I've been invited to stay the week with a friend of my father's—a Mr. Rikard Olafsson, to be exact. I'm expected tonight. Obligations, you know." He moved to put on his jacket, swirling it over his shoulders in inimitable dramatic fashion.

"Obligations?" Brandin laughed. "Since when is being under the same roof with beautiful women an _obligation_?"

"What do you mean?" asked Carl-Magnus with a tinge of annoyance. His eyes were firmly fixed to the mirror again as he began to apply a stiff brush to his coat. "I've just told you, I'm staying with--"

"With Rikard Olafsson, I know. You obviously haven't heard of his _daughters_." Brandin shook his head in amused disbelief. "Obligations. Any man in the regiment would be so obliged!"

There was a sudden harsh expletive, followed by the crash of the hand brush as it hit a nearby crate of supplies. Brandin started slightly, taken aback. Of all the reactions he could have imagined from his friend, this was_not_ one of them! He'd expected a pleased smile, an expression of piqued interest. Now, as he watched, Carl-Magnus began to pace furiously—a tiger in too small a cage.

"What the devil's gotten into you?" he questioned, brow creased.

Carl-Magnus shot a brief glance over his shoulder at the other man. Brandin was obviously confused by his reaction. And why shouldn't he be? Though a gentleman soldier like himself, Brandin was not of titled stock—and he was only a second son, at that. He couldn't possibly understand the pressure both title and succession brought to bear. Carl-Magnus was not only the first son of Count Alrik Malcolm, but also the only son. The only _heir_, in fact. He understood the pressure all too well, and it grew heavier by the day. Brandin had no idea how fortunate he was. What good was a title and inheritance, after all, when your family constantly sought to shackle you in irons? For that was how Carl-Magnus viewed the institution of marriage, and marriage—no doubt—was what his father had in mind with this upcoming stay.

"They planned this!" he fumed. "My father and this Olafsson fellow!"

"Planned what?"

"A week in a country house with _marriageable_ daughters?" Carl-Magnus pronounced the adjective as if it were the most contemptible insult he could conjure. He halted his pacing, glaring at the floor. "I never thought he would sink to this."

"I see. And there's no chance it could be an… unhappy coincidence?"

"None." Carl-Magnus knew there was no such chance. His father was behind this, and he should have seen it coming. He'd walked right into a snare that had been neatly laid out for him, without so much as a whiff of suspicion! Still, he refused to berate himself for the oversight in judgment. What reason had he to suspect his own flesh and blood of such underhanded trickery? Was it not right and natural to expect honesty from one's own family? Carl-Magnus himself would never behave in such a deplorable manner. He scarcely knew which made him more angry—the sense of betrayal, or the fact that his leave would now be occupied in evading yet another of his father's "prospects."

It was the means that had taken him off guard, not the end objective. Indeed, his father and uncle, in particular, had been introducing him to "suitable marriage prospects" for years. There had been innumerable receptions, dinner parties, balls… inane, endless, interchangeable. Interchangeable—just like the girls they paraded before him.

It was a never-ending battle between them, but not the sort of battle that Carl-Magnus enjoyed. There was constant talk of duty and responsibility, of inheritance and bloodlines. The crux of the matter—that he must marry and begin siring heirs. To hear his father and uncle speak of it, marriage would be entirely to his advantage. He need not give up his current lifestyle, they said. He could still carry out his duties as a dragoon, still keep his mistresses just as he liked. Noble women, they explained, were quite amenable to the practice, so long as it was reasonably kept from the public eye, and so long as excessive funds weren't squandered on the other woman. And the benefits of a wife—why, the list reached the skies! While she would naturally require a portion of his time and energy, she would repay it by running a comfortable and efficient household for him. She would entertain and build vital social connections. She would produce sons to carry on the proud family name.

Their praises of the marriage institution did little to convince Carl-Magnus. He was willing to concede that an heir was a necessity, but there were plenty of years ahead to fulfill the obligation. Could he not get a woman with child just as easily twenty years from now as he could at present? As of yet he had no interest in a household of his own, either. He was rarely home as it was, and the staff at any one of his family's estates had always seen to his comfort perfectly well. When it was necessary for him to hold regimental dinners, his mother stepped in as hostess. Why, then, would he want to saddle himself with a wife?

None of these perfectly rational arguments had ever deterred his family's efforts. It was the duty of a nobleman, they said, to make an advantageous union. Carl-Magnus wondered what "advantage" his father wished to gain from an alliance with the Olafssons. From what he had been told, Rikard Olafsson was a man of great wealth, high social standing and considerable property—but he was not titled. His father and uncle had always selected their prospects from other noble families. What had changed? The Olafssons, however wealthy, could offer nothing that the Malcolms did not already have in abundance. It was true that the nobility was not what it once was, especially in terms of political privileges. Did his father seek to bolster the family's fortune and social connections, should more restrictions follow? It was a possibility. It was also a possibility that they'd finally run out of noblewomen. Despite his ire, a self-satisfied smirk crossed Carl-Magnus's face.

"I don't know what you're in such a lather about," Brandin broke in. "A week won't kill you. And when your father finds out that you didn't propose marriage to one of the Misses Olafsson according to plan, what can he do to you? There's no one else to inherit. Anyway, you might be surprised. I've met with the Misses Olafsson on a few occasions, and they're… charming." He gave a reminiscent smile.

Carl-Magnus shot him a withering look. "I have no intention of marrying. Not until I'm too old to avoid it."

"That's unfortunate news for Miss Svensson, then. They say she's still holding out hope. No plans to make an honest woman of her, eh?"

The question was meant lightly, but Carl-Magnus met it with great condescension. "Of course not. The type of woman a man keeps as his mistress and the type he marries are two entirely different things."

"And what is this type of woman you're holding out for?"

Carl-Magnus, not for the first time, found himself seriously pondering that question. It was not the type his father and uncle thrust at him, that was absolutely certain. Young, _pleasant_ girls—age aside, one could hardly call them women. Many had their physical charms, to be sure, and many more were obviously taken with him. Carl-Magnus couldn't name a man who didn't enjoy being swooned over by some pretty young thing, and he was no exception.

Unlike many men, however, his enjoyment of such had its limits. In the first place, it wasn't physical beauty that drew him the most. More often than not, he chose middle-aged women— women that some would call a bit faded—when he could have the freshest, most beautiful young women with a snap of his fingers. Desirability was what counted. These girls could swoon all they liked, but they had no inkling of what a real man was, or how one should behave. They expected a parlour-dandy, a man with soft hands and soft manners, to play with like a tame puppy. They were utterly ignorant and unaware besides—two traits that he most decidedly did _not_ find desirable. All the physical charms in the world could not overcome this—not for long, anyway. Quite simply, most of them bored him to death.

There had been times when he'd been tempted to help a likelier prospect banish ignorance. Those times were rare, for the price was too high. There were too many unpleasant complications—forced marriage, for one. Though he liked to believe no one could force him into anything, he knew full well that, should they put their full effort into it, two angry families could make his life extremely unpleasant. Not that the marriage itself would be much better. This type of girl, in his experience, had an unattractive way of becoming possessive and clinging, prone to fits of histrionics when a man's interests turned elsewhere. They were simpering girls who insisted on men making promises that were not in their nature to keep, then fell to pieces when the promises were quite rightly set by. The idea of marrying such a girl—insupportable! No dalliance, however briefly enjoyable, was worth that kind of life sentence.

Of course, he reasoned, he was probably spoiled by his mistresses. Now _there_—there were women! They were exactly the opposite—earthy, sensible, worldly. _Desirable_. They were women who knew the score, women who were not inclined to weep and cling. Courtesans, actresses, dancers, an heiress with a scandalous past… delicious… and hardly society's idea of what a countess should be. In truth-- not his idea either. His mistresses, to a woman, were seasoned and experienced—fine traits indeed in a mistress, but not at all suitable in a wife. When it came to a wife and mother for his children, he didn't want to plant seed in a field that had already been tilled time and time again. What man did?

No, a _wife_—a wife was something different entirely. She should be untouched, though he admitted to himself that that was hardly a fair requirement. Carl-Magnus prided himself on his modern sensibilities, which told him that it was as natural for an attractive young woman to enjoy herself as it was for a man. He _told_ himself this—but his feelings revolted. Untouched, yes. There were practical considerations as well. She must have the right social connections, and have sufficient charm to build more. She must be able to manage a large household. She must be young and strong enough to birth an heir, plus one or two more.

Therein lay the problem. Why did the type of woman he wanted and the type of woman he must marry have to be at such odds with each other? Was there not some way to blend the traits? The youth and innocence of a dutiful wife, with the ginger and spark of a favorite mistress? Granted, there was no reason why he could not have both. His father and uncle made no secret of keeping mistresses, and Carl-Magnus knew he could do the same. Why not marry some pretty heiress to get his family off his back, enjoy her while he was home, and then go out again before she grew tiresome?

Could it be—no surely not—that he was waiting to see if she possibly existed—that ideal woman who was a combination of everything he desired and everything a proper countess ought to be? No—preposterous! He was not given to such starry-eyed romantic rubbish. Still, if married he must be, it would be exceedingly more… pleasant… if she were a woman he could truly want to come home to. A woman whose conversation he could enjoy and not merely suffer. Perhaps even a woman who could—in her own feminine way of course—share some of his interests and passions. Was it possible? His own parents were coolly pleasant for the hour a day they spent in each other's company. His uncle and aunt were not much different, nor were dozens of noble couples he could name. Polite, shallow marriages, so… _civil_. They couldn't possibly be happy together.

But then again—what did marriage have to do with happiness?

Carl-Magnus shook his head in defiance. One day he'd have to submit to the yoke, but that day was not today. He intended to be unyoked and unfettered for as long as he could make it last. Now there was the week ahead-- the latest attempt to clamp him in irons, and a hurdle he fully intended to clear. Thankfully, he had an advantage his father probably hadn't anticipated. Brandin. During the course of his military training, Carl-Magnus had learned the vital importance of sizing up the opposition beforehand. His fellow officer was the key.

"Brandin, the type of woman I would or would not marry is irrelevant," he said dismissively, changing tack. "I want you to tell me what you know about these daughters of Olafsson's. You said you know them?"

Brandin's mouth quirked. "So I'm the spy in the enemy camp now?" Carl-Magnus gave a curt nod. "Well, for a start, there's three of them. But I don't think you'll have much to fear from the youngest. She's only… oh, nine or ten."

Carl-Magnus was not in the mood for jesting. "And the other two?"

"Completely marriageable, I'm afraid," replied Brandin, who was nearly _always_ in the mood for a jest. "If you count Charlotte as marriageable. Poor Olafsson—I imagine he's just about given up hope. Antonetta, now, there's an entirely different story. _Very _pretty and very agreeable."

Those were two descriptions that Carl-Magnus had heard attached to nearly every one of his father's prospects. He sighed in frustration. "Is she the oldest?"

"No, Charlotte is. The oldest of the family—there aren't any sons."

"Charlotte," Carl-Magnus repeated. "What's wrong with her? She must be absolutely hideous if no one's overlooked her face to get her fortune."

"Not at all. Not a ravishing beauty, but attractive. She might be a bit thin for your taste…" Brandin trailed off, reading his friend's expression. Carl-Magnus looked deadly serious, and he sobered a bit. "But that's not what scares off her suitors. It's her sharp tongue. They say she 'cuts men to ribbons and uses them to trim her hat.'"

"Very poetic, Brandin. Where did you come across that drivel?"

"Common talk."

Carl-Magnus's mouth tipped. "Not from personal experience?"

Brandin shifted in his chair. "Well, it was just once," he admitted. "Every man has to have at least one go. It's almost become a sport. At the last reception, there were bets going-- just to last five minutes without being put into place."

Carl-Magnus met Brandin's eye, new interest showing in his face. "Really."

"It's true."

"You tried to play your hand and lost?"

"You could say that."

"Was it just for the bet?"

"No."

"No?" Carl-Magnus raised an eyebrow.

"Wait until you meet her, friend. I don't know what it is, but she has…_something_."

Carl-Magnus had come across women like this Charlotte Olafsson before, who prided themselves in cutting down men with their wit. He'd known why. They were so unattractive that they couldn't get a decent man, and so lashed out as if they didn't want one. Utter rubbish, all of it, though he supposed he understood. Poor things. But this one… Brandin had said she wasn't unpleasant to the eye, and he trusted his friend's taste. If she put off men, it must be for some other reason. Perhaps she'd been jilted by a former lover, and had sworn never to have another. Perhaps she simply hadn't been courted properly. Some women took a strong hand. Like his.

_Intriguing._

Even as Brandin watched, the scowl faded from his friend's countenance, replaced by a sort of invigorated glow. He'd seen that expression before.

"I know what you're thinking, and you won't have any luck."

This only added fuel to the fire. A rakish smile curved across the Count's face.

"She's a man-hater, I'm telling you."

"Even better," said Carl-Magnus slowly. He could all but hear a bugle call in the distance, and he felt his blood stir. A woman no man could court, let alone touch—what a challenge, there for the taking! All thoughts of his father's deception were thrown aside in its wake. Charlotte Olafsson might well be a man-hater when he arrived, and she might still be a man-hater when he left. It wouldn't matter, and he didn't care.

Without another word to Brandin, Carl-Magnus burst from the tent, bellowing for his horse as he went.

Before the week was out, he swore, Charlotte Olafsson would be at his mercy.


	3. The War Commences

Disclaimer: The characters of Charlotte (Olafsson) Malcolm, Carl-Magnus Malcolm, Anne (Sorensen) Egerman and Marta Olafsson do not belong to me. They are from the musical "A Little Night Music" by Stephen Sondheim (music/lyrics) and Hugh Wheeler (book). The musical is in turn based on the Ingmar Bergman film "Smiles of a Summer Night," which is where these characters first appeared. I did come up with the characters of Alrik Malcolm, Rikard Olafsson and Antonetta Olafsson. This work is written purely for enjoyment and not for any monetary gain whatsoever.

**Chapter Three: The War Commences1**

_This_, thought Charlotte, _is going to be a very long evening_.

Count Malcolm hadn't even arrived at the house yet, and her sister Antonetta was already swooning. Charlotte supposed the swooning was preferable to the giggling and gossip of Antonetta's twenty-odd closest friends, which she had been forced to endure for the past several days.

"They say he's a rake. Isn't it exciting?!"

_Somewhat _preferable, anyhow.

"I can scarcely contain myself," replied Charlotte, drolly. Only nine-year-old Marta, seated on a chaise lounge in a quiet corner of the drawing room, seemed less impressed by Antonetta's revelation. Beside her sat Anne Sorensen, her visiting school friend. While Marta was absorbed in putting the finishing touches on a drawing in her sketchbook, Anne had caught Antonetta's excitement and hung on her every word.

"Oh, Charlotte, really!" Antonetta fussed.

"If you knew what a rake is, Netta, you wouldn't be half so thrilled," said Charlotte, though she honestly wasn't sure if that were true or not. Antonetta, despite her scores of suitors, was really dreadfully naïve and almost ridiculously innocent. Even if she _did_ know what the term meant, she wouldn't grasp the reality of it. Under the veneer of sophistication was a girl that saw the world as some sort of glorious fairy tale, where rakes were merely dashing young men who didn't leave shattered hearts—or worse, shattered lives—in their wake. Was it better, thought Charlotte, to be like her sister—all wide-eyed wonder and eagerness—rather than to be a cynic like herself, far before she'd lived long enough to have the right?

There really wasn't time for such philosophic notions. Charlotte headed out of the drawing room and into the front hall. There was a flower arrangement there that needed tending before the Count's arrival, and she also thought it best to remove the conversation from the hearing range of the younger girls. Charlotte wasn't of a prudish nature, but she highly doubted Mr. Sorensen would appreciate little Anne receiving what might be termed an "advanced education." Thankfully, she hadn't overheard anything yet that couldn't be covered with some explanation involving gardening implements.

Antonetta followed at her older sister's heels. "I know better than you do, I'm sure," she retorted. Her tone was too snippy to be truly wounding. "You never let a man get close enough to see if he's a rake or not."

This was really very unkind, but Charlotte rallied. "They can be spotted at far range, I assure you," she countered, eyeing the floral arrangement critically. Even more critically, she pondered her father's actions in trying to secure such a potentially profligate young man as a husband for her innocent sister. Obviously, a daughter's marital happiness was an acceptable sacrifice on the altar of social status. Still, Charlotte allowed, he might not think much of the Count's purported extra-curricular activities. He may have put them off to gossip-- as indeed they probably were, mostly—or he might not care even if they were gospel truth. It was hardly out of the ordinary for a privileged young man to take his pleasure where he could get it.

"They say he's seduced hundreds of women."

"How charming." Charlotte was thankful they'd left the drawing room before _that_ little tidbit was divulged. She grasped a wayward floral sprig and moved it smartly into place. "And no doubt inaccurate. Take that number and divide it by ten. It's a formula that holds true with most men." Charlotte didn't mention that she'd learned said formula from one of the housemaids. Below stairs conversations (either overheard or slyly wrangled) were the source of much of Charlotte's information on the hardier sex.

"Well, dozens, anyway."

"My word! Remind me to lock up the parlourmaid."

"He wouldn't dally with a _parlourmaid_." Antonetta sounded as if Charlotte had just suggested the world was flat. "Practically all of his mistresses are terribly famous. Heiresses, actresses… A _parlourmaid_, honestly!"

It was on Charlotte's lips to say that noblemen dallied with women of far lesser status when they heard a faint call from one of the stable hands. Was the call meant as an alert to the footman, posted at the front door for the Count's arrival? Antonetta hurried back to the drawing room's front windows. Charlotte followed, not without some speed.

"It can't be Count Malcolm, not yet," she said, half under her breath. "Not unless he fairly _galloped_ here from the camp."

Antonetta peered out the window. "No, it is! It has to be!"

Anne was up off the chaise in a twinkling, bouncing over to the window. Marta remained seated with her sketchbook, largely unconcerned. She'd see the Count all week—probably more than she wished to, at interminably long dinners and receptions -- and saw no reason to disrupt her hobby while she still had time to do it. Marta was an eminently practical child. Anne had a different view on the matter, and was practically pressed against the plate glass.

"He's riding a big black horse!" she cried in delight. "Oh, Marta, come see! He looks like a prince!"

This was an ambitious observation at best (apart from the black horse, which was difficult to miss), for he was still quite far away. Still, Charlotte could see why the child might have said so. She could just make out the hint of a uniform, with the late sun glinting off of what were probably medals and brass buttons. A plumed hat crowned his brow. Even if Anne's princely designation was debatable, the approaching rider was almost without a doubt the Count Carl-Magnus.

"Goodness, yes," Charlotte observed, still squinting out of the window. "What a perfect little tin soldier." Taking another look, she amended her statement. "Or, not so little as the case may be."

"Oh, Charlotte you're _horrible_," said Antonetta, half scolding, half in vague despair. "You're always horrible." Antonetta just knew that her older sister would manage to say something absolutely _mortifying_ to the Count, probably within the first ten minutes of his arrival. She didn't mind, for Charlotte's sake—if Charlotte wanted to be an eccentric, dried-up old spinster, what business was it of hers? Still, there was such a thing as guilt by association. What man wanted to have such a tartar for a sister-in-law?

"Well, horrible or not, I have to go get dressed," replied Charlotte decisively, turning away to do just that. She hadn't yet had time to change from her afternoon dress to something suitable for dinner, and the Count's early arrival made it a matter of urgency. "If half of what you say about the Count is true, Netta, I think perhaps a suit of armour would be appropriate?"

Anne, oblivious to the joke, hurried over to tug at her arm. "Wear the dark green—no, the wine! With the trim."

Charlotte spared a moment to smile down at her. "Yes, I think I will." She didn't tell the girl that she, with the help of her personal maid, had already chosen that very dress early on in the morning. In fact, poor Ona was probably pacing the dressing room waiting for her as they spoke. She'd feel responsible if Charlotte didn't look suitably dazzling in front of company—a count, no less!

Charlotte again turned to go, Anne's adoring gaze following her. Anne idolized both the Misses Olafsson, even more so as she was an only child with no older sisters of her own. Antonetta was like a princess to her, bright and pretty. It was Antonetta who would join she and Marta's little tea parties, Antonetta who would fix her hair and let her play dress-up with last year's gowns. Charlotte did none of these things, but it lessened Anne's estimation of her not a whit. It simply meant that if Antonetta was a princess, then Charlotte was a queen—friendly but a bit remote—and so _grand_! In Anne's eyes, the two of them were the finest and most beautiful ladies in all of Sweden, and henceforth in the entire world. It didn't occur to her that the Count was coming for any other reason but to carry one of them off on his big black horse, take her to his castle (did counts live in castles?) and marry her. She thought she knew which one, too.

"Are you going to marry the Count, Charlotte?" she asked, in perfect sincerity.

Charlotte paused in the doorway and gave a sardonic smile. "When I do, my dear, you can be the flower girl at my wedding."

--------------------

Dressing was a hurried affair. In Ona's eyes, it was nothing short of a state of emergency. She'd recruited Antonetta's maid to help, and together the three of them managed the adjustment of undergarments and change of dress and jewelry in near-record time. Charlotte was thankful Ona had insisted on fixing her hair a few hours before, in a pause from their preparation duties. She never would have made it otherwise, and despite her feelings on her father's objective for the week, it absolutely would not do for the lady of the house to be absent at a guest's arrival. She was off down the hall at a near run just as the front door opened downstairs.

She heard the Count before she saw him.

"Count Carl-Magnus Malcolm," rang his voice from below, clear and brisk in the open foyer. "I'm expected." _As if he needs to introduce himself_, Charlotte thought wryly. He'd announced his presence not only to the servants at the door but to the entire household, in a voice that could have been giving orders in the field. Even from two short phrases, Charlotte detected supreme arrogance. Or was it just her imagination, borne of some preconceived prejudice? No doubt she would find out soon enough.

Charlotte was almost to the stairway when she heard her father enter the foyer. It wasn't his habit to greet at the door, but she knew his step. She immediately held back. If she came down the stairway now, it would look for all the world as if she were trying to make an entrance. She would simply have to wait until her father and the Count moved away towards the drawing room, letting her make a less obtrusive descent.

"Count Malcolm!" Mr. Olafsson greeted his noble guest with hearty delight. Charlotte smirked unseen. She'd never heard him so enthusiastic; it was not in his usual nature. His greeting had been the vocal equivalent of rubbing his hands together. "It's an honour to have you, sir."

"Thank you, sir, for the invitation," replied the Count, cordially enough. "It is most appreciated. My father also sends his regards." His tone was polite, Charlotte thought, but still with an underlying attitude that it was all his due. She supposed he couldn't help it. The attitude was probably bred in.

"You're very welcome, sir. Would you care to take some refreshment in the drawing room while the servants unpack your things?"

"That would be excellent."

The voices moved off, and Charlotte saw her opportunity. She was halfway down the stairs when the Count, alerted by the unmistakable sound of rustling skirts, stepped back into the foyer.

She stopped, and then she stared.

--------------------

Charlotte had expected the Count to be handsome. After all, the week of inane squealing from Antonetta's friends could not be entirely for nothing. However, Charlotte had found that the almost pretty men they most often admired did little to entice her. She much preferred a man like… well, like _this_ one.

It was his presence, above everything, that struck her first—the sheer _size_ of him. It went far beyond his physical proportions, though they were magnificent indeed. Towering in the doorway with a saber at his side, he was the very picture of the glorious military hero. But it was far more than that, this presence—it was something palpable, filling the room. His bearing, his carriage, his very _attitude_ was one of masculine pride and power. _Carl-Magnus_, she thought. The girls had looked up the name. _Great man_. It was fitting.2

She took a step, and saw him more clearly.

There was a good dash of rigid superiority on that aggressively handsome face. A tin soldier, she'd said…or was a peacock a better comparison? There was something in his features, or something in his air, that seemed almost comedically self-satisfied, dimly pompous. Uncoupled with his other traits, Charlotte might have been able to laugh at that, as she had laughed at it in so many other men. Charlotte, however, was not laughing. Her mouth had gone dry and she couldn't seem to draw enough breath to accomplish it. It was the hurried preparation, the run down the hall, she reasoned with herself.

Or the fact that he was staring at her as intensely as she was staring at him, boldly and openly. His eyes were the color of flint.

Her eyes flitted away from his. Details came into place: the gleaming dark hair, the perfectly trimmed moustache, the strong jaw and chiseled features. She saw the broad shoulders and chest, set off by the uniform with its epaulets and sash. His hips, by contrast, were slim, and his legs in their close-fitting riding pants were muscular from the hours he spent in the saddle. He was fit and trim, hard and immovable, not a touch of softness to be found— except in the mouth, perhaps, just the curve of the lower lip. That was all.

In short, he was absolutely the most splendid man Charlotte had ever seen.

--------------------

Carl-Magnus was captivated. He was also confused. Neither, he knew, was the correct response to encountering the enemy. Or was it quarry?

Before him on the stairs was an extraordinarily appealing creature in a wine-colored dress, who was staring at him and struggling for breath in a most attractive and promising way. _But which daughter was she? _Brandin had said that Charlotte was pleasant to look at, but not ravishing. Her desirability to men lay more in her very inaccessibility. If _this_ woman in front of him was not ravishing, Carl-Magnus couldn't name a woman who was! Was this Antonetta? His mind somehow pushed away the thought. Pretty, Brandin had said. Antonetta was supposed to be pretty. Pretty implied a sort of girlishness, and this was most definitely _not_ a girl. This was a woman, and one that Carl-Magnus had every intention of pursuing.

Whether she happened to be Charlotte Olafsson or not.

Brandin clearly knew nothing about women.

She wasn't a conventional beauty, he'd allow Brandin that. Her aristocratic features were too defined, her eyes too intense. There was something almost fox-like, almost feline—or was it hawk-like? — in those features, or in her expression. The quirk of the mouth, the sparkle in the eyes that promised spirit and wit… not conventional, but very beautiful. Yes, ravishing, even! Carl-Magnus admired the proud, well-bred lines; the fine cheekbones; the tilt of her chin. He imagined the water-smooth hair tumbling lavishly over her shoulders when taken down. He noted the flawless cut of her clothes and observed with a pleased and expert eye that her figure was not overly corseted. Carl-Magnus considered himself quite the admirer of the female form, and, unlike many of his acquaintance, preferred it in its natural state. She was truly something to behold-- very tall and very slim, yet curved where a woman ought to be. Statuesque, he believed the term was.

Carl-Magnus had seen and sampled many women, but he had never seen one like her. He didn't imagine that he ever would again. How unexpected! Though it was not his way to stare at women like some smitten schoolboy, he found that his eyes simply wouldn't tear away. His heart slammed against his chest, rapid as a drumbeat.

Then Mr. Olafsson came back into the foyer and the spell was broken.

--------------------

Rikard Olafsson had no notion of what he had interrupted. What he did know was that his oldest daughter, for no logical reason he could deduce, was perched unnecessarily on a center stair when she should have been graciously overseeing the serving of refreshments. There was just the barest hint of disapproval, almost entirely concealed, when he introduced her to the waiting Count.

"Ah, I see you've met my oldest daughter, Charlotte. She will be your hostess for the week, so if you require anything…"

"No doubt Miss Olafsson has foreseen anything I might require," Carl-Magnus replied, all strategic politeness. Satisfaction filled his entire being, though he maintained a measured—but meaningful-- smile. _So this is Charlotte_. Somehow, he realized, he'd known it from the start. Her clever face, the curve of her mouth—of _course_ she was Charlotte. How had he even questioned it?

He watched with predatory precision as she came down the remaining stairs to join them, managing with only minimal success to regain her composure. He saw how she raised her chin a fraction, and how her sharp eyes became sharper still. The signs pointed to one thing—she had sensed him, and was building her fortifications. No doubt he would feel the first sting of opening fire soon enough. She couldn't have earned her reputation for nothing! He met her eyes, willing her, _daring_ her to begin the battle. He'd shatter her fortifications soon enough. Why not be generous and allow her the first shot?

Carl-Magnus would never admit, even to himself—perhaps _especially_ to himself-- that she wasn't the only one struggling for composure.

"How very kind, Count Malcolm," said Charlotte. Her voice came out strange, a bit croaky. She attempted to clear her throat and went on, as formally as she could. "We're pleased to have you as our guest."

To Charlotte's extreme dismay, the Count continued to keep his eyes firmly locked on her, the slightest smile on his lips. He looked as if he… _knew_ something about her that she did not. She felt fixed, pinned in place, oddly flustered. She was discomfited by the Count's intense perusal, and yet strangely… _This is idiotic!_ Charlotte visibly drew herself up, readying for battle.

"Dinner will be served at eight." She paused, precisely for effect. "I am not the first course."

There was the usual long silence that typically followed one of Charlotte's comments. The only sound was a sharp, indignant sort of cough from Mr. Olafsson—the only outward evidence of swiftly rising anger. He'd had ample practice in tamping down outbursts, in many a similar situation. What was different in _this_ particular situation was that the man on the receiving end of Charlotte's verbal lancing looked completely unruffled—almost, indeed, as if he hadn't heard her at all! Charlotte felt uncharacteristically unsettled. The Count continued to meet her eyes, the same maddening small smile on his face. Was the man so dim that he hadn't understood her? She tried again.

"That sound you hear, Count Malcolm, is all of my father's hopes of our courtship and eventual marriage crashing to the ground."

Charlotte seldom regretted anything she said, but she regretted the statement the moment it left her lips. What had this infuriating man done to her!? Oh, the statement was clever, no doubt, but in appallingly poor taste. To insult her father to a guest, right in front of his face! To lay open and probably ruin-- in a most humiliating way— all of his plans! No matter how she disliked his intentions, her father did not deserve that. Nor did Antonetta, who had undoubtedly overheard. For quite possibly the first time in her life, Charlotte did not want to meet her father's eyes. She looked instead at Count Malcolm… and to her complete surprise, he looked anything but offended. His smile grew, slow and amused.

"I must apologize for staring, Miss Olafsson," he said, filling the tense silence. His voice was a rich baritone: full, smooth and resonant. "It was abominably rude. Allow me to provide some explanation. You see, when my fellow officer Lieutenant Brandin told me you were beautiful, he made a vast understatement."

It was trite, Charlotte knew. It was worse than trite; it was absolute _treacle_, like something out of the awful dime novels that Antonetta devoured and Charlotte mocked over her shoulder. So why was her skin warming, why was her heart beating faster when he said it? How utterly ridiculous! Far worse, Count Malcolm seemed to know exactly what effect his words had wrought!

Carl-Magnus _did_ know it, and beneath his carefully maintained exterior coursed pure triumph. The first match was his. He had allowed her the offense, and had effortlessly dodged her slings and arrows. His counterattack, though, had hit her deep. The short little breaths, the slight flush to her skin… Still, he must not be blinded by this early victory. Charlotte would fight far harder than this, and he could scarcely wait. She would go back to her room tonight and stock the arsenal, plot her defense… and then no doubt lie in the dark alone and dream of him. He must give her something more to dream about before the opening battle was done.

When Count Malcolm reached out for her hand, Charlotte gave it to him instinctively. It was customary in polite society for a gentleman to kiss the hand of lady upon meeting her. His hand was large and strong, but he handled her smaller one as if it were porcelain. He raised it to his lips and actually kissed it—not the standard, barely imperceptible brush. His eyes again met hers and his lips curved up into a smile and his message was clear. He was telling her he'd _enjoyed_ it. Charlotte felt something uncurl inside, slow and warm.

"I'm delighted to meet you, Miss Olafsson."

When Charlotte opened her mouth to reply, nothing came out.

1 The chapter title comes from Carl-Magnus' omitted song, "Bang!" It was replaced by "In Praise of Women."

2 The name Carl-Magnus means "great man" or "big man." Appropriately, the name Charlotte means "woman."


End file.
